'scape | Jenny Overton finding light in the dark

By
LIBBY BINGHAM

Devonport writer Jenny Overton in a new book explores her family’s rollercoaster last seven years after her son was diagnosed with a tumour.

‘WITH the diagnosis of a physical tumour comes an emotional one and this is the one that every family member must deal with.’

The words of Devonport writer Jenny Overton explained her family’s rollercoaster last seven years.

Writer Jenny Overton wrote about her family's experience of helping her son after he was diagnosed with a brain tumour in a new book. Picture: Katrina Docking.

The mother of four was speaking about the life-threatening battle her then 18-year-old son, Pete, faced and as his mother and carer she was right there.

She witnessed his astonishing courage and inner strength.

‘‘He is one of the strongest and most courageous people I know. If life deals you a lemon make lemonade,’’ Mrs Overton writes in a new book.

The debut author had always journaled her way through life’s little ups and downs. For three years she has written two blogs: About her travels and the quilting and craftwork which, in some of the dark times, she took comfort in.

But when she faced her lowest point it was a much bigger writing project and Mrs Overton’s first published book is being launched next Friday at the Devonport Regional Gallery.

Lemon-Sized Tumour: One family’s road to recovery, is a mother’s raw and candid perspective throughout her son’s medical treatment, the grief, the discovery of what an acquired brain injury means—and the challenging aftermath.

At times the writing was painful as she relived it all.

Writing was also the therapy to get her through.

‘‘Brain and tumour. Two of the worst words to go together in one sentence,’’ Mrs Overton says.

She drew a lot on her Christian faith.

‘‘You have to dig pretty deeply into your soul at times like these, and then again to write about them’’, she tells.

When teenage Pete was first diagnosed with a brain tumour his mother was by his side.

‘‘In a sterile, windowless opthalmologist’s office with blue walls, chairs and carpeting, my 18-year-old son, Pete, and I waited. We didn’t know things would never be the same again. Pete and I had driven to Launceston ... for an MRI scan that morning.

‘‘Pete’s symptoms had developed only a couple of weeks previously.

‘‘He’d been complaining of blurred peripheral vision following a cold.

‘‘He’d taken a test to gain his driving licence and missed a turn; he couldn’t see it.

‘‘His assessor suggested he should see an optometrist and have his eyes checked, advice he took ... I sat in the room at the imaging clinic with Pete as he was shunted through the tunnel of the MRI machine ... as we waited, I prayed. ‘O God, let this be simple; solvable.

‘‘I knew there was an unavoidable road ahead that we had to go down ... the opthalmologist came back in.

‘I’m really sorry to be the one who has to tell you this but there is something wrong’.

‘‘He used words like mass or lesion, and that he had no idea at this stage what it could be.

‘‘When he left us Pete was calm. He looked at me and said, ‘you know mum I always knew I had this, didn’t you’?’’ (from: Lemon-Sized Tumour)

Mrs Overton was taken aback by her son’s matter of fact reaction.

‘‘He always knew, which really shocked me and I thought as a mum I should have known too, but it just was a complete surprise to me,’’ she said.

The surgeon explained the tumour was about the size of a small lemon.

‘‘Encapsulated by the hard skull, the brain simply has nowhere to go when being pushed by something of this nature,’’ he told them.

Pete had eight hours of microscopic surgery the next morning and it seemed to have gone well. The surgeon felt as far as brain tumours went this was the best kind.

After the surgery Pete had a seizure and another one. The medicos identified a bleed on the right temporal lobe and Pete was being rushed back to surgery where it was touch and go. He came through and was in the intensive care ward in a druginduced coma and an infection took hold.

‘‘About 2.30am we were eventually able to go in and see him. We had no idea what to expect. Time had slowed, and putting my seemingly happy, healthy son into that taxi (from Launceston General Hospital to Royal Hobart Hospital) over 24-hours ago seemed like days ago.

‘‘Pete looked like he’d been hit by a train and we felt like we had too.’’

Mrs Overton writes of the high dependency unit nurses in Royal Hobart Hospital neurological ward being: ‘‘Wonderful but it is a soul destroying place to spend time in’’.

‘‘These were questions I heard constantly. Some patients could answer them, but to others Bob Menzies was still running the country.’’

Before her son’s brain surgery Mrs Overton’s life was one of self-employment, raising four sons and being involved in a church life extensively.

Suddenly her son’s life was in a tenuous state as he fought back from near death. Brain damage was likely.

There was a period of grief for the life her son would have had and the one he would have now.

When Pete woke up he took little baby steps forward and just as many backward.

‘‘Occasionally, during quieter times when I would sit with Pete and hold his hand, he began to open up about the reality of his experience ... ‘I don’t know where I’ve been,’ he said. ‘There are a lot of blanks’.’’

Mrs Overton says her son takes nothing for granted and while his life is challenging he does not live superficially.

He doesn’t want to be seen differently to other people.

For that reason Pete did not want photos of himself to be published in his mother’s book or in ’Scape today.

‘‘This book is my version but it’s Pete’s story,’’ Mrs Overton said.

‘‘Pete (now 26) was the one who had the lemon-sized tumour and had to fight for his life.

‘‘I started this book initially as an aid to help me deal with a very difficult part of my life. During this time reading publications by others who had been in a similar position was what saved my personal sanity.

‘‘I would now hope this book might be included among those.

‘‘I hope this is an honest book about hard stuff.

‘‘Our lives did get back on track but were changed permanently.’’

Jenny and husband Paul have six grandchildren and a lot to feel happy about.

Sitting together in the back room of their family framing business Paul looks at his resilient wife and smiles lovingly.

‘‘I’ve just read the book and I used half a box of tissues reliving it,’’ he says.

If he told his version it would be a different story.

‘‘It’s very isolating,’’ Paul says.

He kept the business going in Devonport but his mind was always miles away in Hobart where his son lay in a hospital bed.

It meant travelling to Hobart every weekend and back to Devonport to work.

‘‘One guy lent me a car and I travelled in his car for weeks ... I took down a food hamper each week which friends put together,’’ Paul says.

In the middle of living it there is no choice but to handle it, Jenny says.

‘‘You pull yourself together and get all the resources you’ve got and you just do what you have to do,’’ she says.

There were a few moments where she broke down but not many.

‘‘You can’t afford to lose it,’’ she says.

‘‘An experience like that is completely life-changing and in many ways Pete will never be the same again but he works very hard to keep his life normal and not to let that experience overshadow and take over his life.

‘‘In as many ways as he can he wants to leave it behind.’’

His proud parents talk of how Pete has made his own successes. When he struggled to work in conventional employment he started an internet store and ebay business.

‘‘He sells fossilised sharks teeth,’’ says Paul.

Pete is a talented artist. He plays guitar like his dad, who sings in a jazz troupe.

Mrs Overton says: ‘‘Life’s a gift and a hard thing to go through’’.

‘‘An experience of this nature gives you far more empathy and compassion.

‘‘More understanding of disabilities and opens your eyes.

‘‘I’m keen in a small way that this book might raise awareness about acquired brain injuries, which I think are misunderstood and are a massive problem, particularly among young people.

‘‘In Pete’s situation it was a tumour but with most young people it’s car accidents and violence’’.

Mrs Overton still finds it tough at times to let go of the old life.

Now there is pre-surgery life and post-surgery life.

‘‘Peter never dwelt on this much,’’ she writes.

‘‘This has taught me to get over prejudices I never knew I had. It continues to teach me to let go of expectations I never knew I had ... I’ve learnt to rethink these expectations and to look at achievements differently.’’

In many ways the past years toughened her.

‘‘I used to be a crier and now I’m not. My husband is the opposite, he cries more.